Mr. Punch's Cockney Humour Part 15

'Ot July! Just nicked a handy fiver (Twenty-five to one on old "Screw-driver"!) New rig-out. This mustard colour mixture Suits me n.o.bby. Fan appears a fixture.

Gurls like style, you know, and colour ketches 'em, But good show of ochre,--_that's_ what fetches 'em, Wimbledon! _I'm_ not a Wolunteer.

Discipline don't suit this child--no fear!

But we 'ave fine capers at the camp, Proper, but for that confounded scamp: Punched my 'ead because I guyed his shooting.

Fan I fancied rather 'ighfaluting; Ogled the big beggar as he propped me.

Would 'a licked 'im if _she_ 'adn't stopped me.

AUGUST.

August! Time to think about my outing.

No dibs yet, though, so it's no use shouting.

Make the best of the Bank 'Oliday.

Fan "engaged"! Don't look too bloomin' gay, Drop into the bar to do a beer, Twig her talking to that Volunteer.

Sling my 'ook instanter sharp and short, Took Jemimer down to 'Ampton Court.

Not 'arf bad, that gurl. Got rather screwed, Little toff complained as I was rude.

'It 'im in the wind, he went like death; Weak, consumptive cove and short o' breath.

Licked 'im proper, dropped 'im like a shot,-- Only wish that Fan had seen _that_ lot.

SEPTEMBER.

'Ere's September! 'Oliday at last!

Off to Margit--mean to go it fast.

Mustard-coloured togs still fresh as paint, Like to know who's natty, if _I_ ain't.

Got three quid; have cried a go with Fan, Game to spend my money like a man.

But sticking tight to one gal ain't no fun-- Here's no end of prime 'uns on the run; Carn't resist me somehow, togs and tile All A 1--make even swell ones smile.

Lor! if I'd the ochre, make no doubt I could cut no end of big pots out.

Call me cad? When money's in the game, Cad and swell are pooty much the same.

OCTOBER.

Now October! Back again to collar, Funds run low, reduced to last 'arf-dollar.

Snip on rampage, boots a getting thin, 'Ave to try the turf to raise some tin.

Evenings getting gloomy; high old games; Music 'alls! Look up the taking names.

Proper swells them pros.! If I'd my choice, There's my mark. Just wish I'd got a voice; Cut the old den to-morrow, lots of cham., Cabs and diamonds,--ain't that real jam?

Got the straight tip for the Siezerwitch, If I _honly_ land it, I'll be rich.

Guess next mornin' wouldn't find me sober-- Allays get the blues about October.

NOVEMBER.

Dull November! Didn't land that lot.

Fear my father's son is going to pot.

Fan jest pa.s.sed me, turned away 'er eyes, Guess she ranked me with the _other_ guys, n.o.bby larks upon the ninth, my joker; But it queers a chap to want the ochre.

Nothing like a crowd for regular sprees, Ain't it fine to do a rush, and squeeze?

Twig the women fainting! Oh, it's proper!

Bonnet buffers when the blooming copper Can't get near yer nohow. Then the fogs!

Rare old time for regular jolly dogs.

If a chap's a genuine 'ot member, He _can_ keep the game up in November!

DECEMBER.

Dun December! Dismal, dingy, dirty.

Still short commons--makes a chap feel s.h.i.+rty.

Snip rampageous, drops a regular summons.

Fan gets married; ah! them gurls is rum 'uns!

After all the coin I squandered on 'er!

Want it now. A 'eap too bad, 'pon honour, Snow! Ah, that's yer sort, though, and no error.

Treat to twig the women scud in terror.

Hot 'un in the eye for that old feller; Cold 'un down 'is neck, bust his umbreller.

Ha! ha! Then Christmas,--'ave a jolly feast!

The boss will drop a tip,--hope so, at least.

If I don't land some tin, my look-out's queer.

Well, let's drink, boys--"Better luck next year!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: STUDIES IN ANIMAL LIFE.

The chick-a-leary cochin.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Swell (who won't be done)._ "H 'yars my kyard if you'd--ah--like to summon me."

_Cabby (who has pulled up and heard the dispute)._ "Don't you take it, Bill. It's his ticket o' leave!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: A LABOUR OF LOVE!

_Benevolent Lady (who has with infinite trouble organised a country excursion for some over-worked London dressmakers)._ "Then mind you're at the station at nine to-morrow, Eliza. I do hope it won't rain!"

"_Rine_, miss! I 'owp not, to be sure! The country's bad enough when it's _foine_, yn't it, miss?"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: ON EPSOM DOWNS

"Get onto 'is neck, like me, Halfred, an' they'll take us for jockeys!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Little Tompkins._ "That fellow Brown tried to stuff me up with some of his travellers' tales the other day. Talked about his trip to Italy, and the waving fields of macaroni, but he didn't catch me, you know. They _don't_ wave!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: GUILE.

_Old Lady._ "You know the 'Royal Oak'? Well, you turn to the right, past the 'Jolly Gardener,' till you come to the 'Red Lion'----"